......leukemia and pig babies

My mother in law was in the hospital….again. We blamed the pacemaker. We blamed an ulcer. We thought it could be depression. Stress. High blood pressure. Low blood sugar. You name it we guessed it. Better to be safe then sorry….off to the ER.

Six hours and a tuna sandwich later they admitted her for tests. They thought it could be the pacemaker or an ulcer, possibly depression or stress. Her blood pressure too high, her sugar to low…so better to be safe than sorry they admitted her. Gee, I could have told them that.

After a two weeks in the hospital with no definitive diagnosis she was released and told to follow up with her doctors. The orthopedist, the cardiologist, the gastroenterologist and now, a new one…..a hematology oncologist. She called it her ‘blood doctor’ but I knew better. Apparently so did she since she asked everyone she knew if she had leukemia.  I assured her she didn't although I was just being optimistic and asked her if she had a health proxy.  She said, just let me die.  We both laughed.

We drove to the doctor who’s office was across the street from the same hospital she checks in and out of pretty regularly these days. There is never any parking, legal or illegal so we agreed I would just park in the lot. I pulled in and pressed the button and waited for the machine to spit out a ticket that in due time would be exchanged for somewhere upwards of $12. No ticket. Press. No ticket. Press. Nothing. I opened my window and motioned to the indifferent woman in the booth. She asked me to back up and use the other lane. The other lane wouldn’t give me a ticket either, and so, as if it was my fault she got out of her air conditioned booth and gave me a ticket and an attitude. I was on my best behavior for my mother in law, so miss attitude caught a break instead of my fist. We parked, took the elevator up to the ground floor and a second elevator bank. The doctor’s business card had no room or floor on it so I called the office. The exact conversation:

“Doctor’s office.”

“Hi, can you tell me what suite you are in?”

“Hold please.” almost 2 minutes later...

“Doctor’s office”

“Hi, I am downstairs, can you tell me what floor and room you are in?”

Silence. Dial tone.

“Doctor’s office”

“Hi, please, we got disconnected please just tell me what suite you are in?”

“I told you 4G ma‘am, I am busy here.” Click. Best behavior…best behavior.

The elevator door opened and we were hit with a blast of hot air. I flashed back on every fire safety lesson I have ever had as a child as I thought for sure there was a fire somewhere. I knew between my mother in law and myself, stop, drop and roll wasn’t gonna work as neither of us would ever be able to get up again and simply perish on the dirty carpeting in the hallway of the 4th floor. I peered down the hallway and saw no flames even though the heat was intense. We made our way to 4G which turned out to be a supply closet, but 4B had her doctor’s name on it so we entered.  (So much for the busy little receptionist with the thick accent and lousy attitude)

The office had a small waiting room where there were 4 people already seated and waiting. A knitter, a snorer and I assume her husband and a woman reading a book called How Successful People Speak, and then proceeded to belch out loud.  She's gonna need more than the book! As I filled out the new patient forms and sweat poured from my forehead, it was apparently clear what the heat was from….the air conditioning on this side of the building was not working. My mother in law who talks until you want to stick a metal rod in your ear and who is in denial about her hearing loss wanted to know why it was so ‘damn’ hot in there. After repeatedly explaining about the broken A/C, she turned to a me and said, ”I don’t think the air conditioning is working.”  Best behavior…best behavior.

After over a hour of fanning myself with a mammogram brochure and being told by the knitter that I was exhausting more energy fanning myself and therefore making myself hotter, I was ready to scream.  Thanks but no thanks for your unsolicited advice....go back to knitting your booties or blanket and let me sweat and fan in peace.  Listening to my mother in law's stories about life as a kid, complete with the one about the lady who got scared by a pig while she was pregnant and had a pig baby, prompted me to ask the receptionist from hell if she knew how much longer it would be. I found it rather suspicious that no one had been called, and all too soon found out that the doctor wasn’t even there yet.  Engineering showed up with a fan which would have actually helped except when they plugged it in it sparked and they whisked it away leaving us dripping and fanning ourselves once again.  (Well, I fanned... the knitter, knitted.) My mother in law who decided to talk to her captive audience about how many times a night she pees asked what happened to the fan.  I jokingly told her the air was fixed and she heartily agreed that it was feeling cooler already.  We were finally called to the rear office where we remained for another 40 minutes before the doctor came in.  This was an outing for my mother in law, a day away from her house....for me it was supposed to be my day off.  She rambled and I listened to her stories as intently as I could considering I hadn't eaten since 7am and my blood sugar was probably 12 and my body could no longer even produce a bead of sweat. 

The ‘blood doctor’ was about 4 foot 10 and looked disturbingly like the munchkin coroner from OZ.  He was Phillipine, looked Mexican, had a German name and spoke with an Italian accent.  Man I'd hate to see his family tree.  And it got worse. When he spoke it sounded like he had just inhaled a helium balloon, and as he continued to talk I continued to look for a hidden camera, Ashton and the Punk’d crew. He asked her in his shrill, high pitched Italian articulation how she was feeling. I wanted to scream HOT! But I didn’t, best behavior.  Best behavior. He gave her a clean bill of health, no blood disorders, no leukemia, nothing to warrant going to an oncologist, and no reason to make a follow up appointment. (ok I decided there was no reason for the follow up appt)  As I hurried my mother in law out of the office before she began to tell yet another ''life in the hills of Illinois" story I realized this had actually been a good day.  She was healthy, I had lost 6 pounds in the sauna office, I now knew not to expend energy by fanning myself and lunch was on her!   Hmmm, too bad I don't like lobster!

i'm melting, melting..........

I wasn’t born with the calm, cool or collected gene. I never said I was unshakeable, unflappable, or unexcitable. So it doesn’t surprise me in the least that it has taken me 4 days to even recount our Sunday outing to Madame Tussauds wax museum in Manhattan to see the Wizard of Oz 4D experience via the NYC subway system.

I think it was my idea. Maybe it was my daughter, the one that had the coupons. At this point I am willing to take the blame, err... I mean credit for this wonderful summer day in the city. (Midtown. Times Square. 96 degrees…..just a few points to consider)

I didn’t sleep the night before. I had nightmare after nightmare but nothing related directly to our decision to take the train in. Nothing related to the fact that the weatherman was calling for hot sticky humid mid 90’s. And nothing related to the fact that the last time I was on a train was 7 years ago and 22 years before that. Seven years ago we ventured into the city for a friends 50th and proceeded to meander around the city via urine soaked subway cars and menacing dank train platforms. And while the birthday weekend was a huge success, it was then that I swore off subways, trains, railroads, railways and basically anything I needed a metro card for. (I did however score a really cool subway line t-shirt as a reward for my fortitude, or perhaps it was to shut me up.) This time there were eleven of us, including my four grandchildren and the birthday girl herself. This time no t-shirt in the world was gonna help.

With no sleep, I showered and ate breakfast like I was gonna walk the green mile. Not exactly a fitting way to start a fun-packed Sunday with the family. We agreed to leave at 10 and meet at the subway station…which would have been fine if my husband hadn’t insisted my son in law take a parking spot that was 2 blocks away.   90 degrees

We all met in front of the train station to buy our metro cards. Only the birthday girl had one already.  Hmmmm?? Insert the bill, it comes out. Insert it again, nothing. Insert it upside down we get the screen to chose which card we would like to purchase. We chose, it can’t make enough change. We chose again and we finally have our metro card and the angry crowd building behind us is relieved. One by one we proceed to swine and enter. Swipe and enter. Swipe and….swipe and….swipe and nothing. Our metro card is not working and before my husband got locked up for defacing MTA property, birthday girl swiped her card and we entered. We opened the gate for the carriage setting off an ear-piercing yet unanswered alarm. So much for post 9/11 security. We climbed the stairs, which while still dank and foul smelling did not seem so menacing in the light of day. After a quick assessment of who had who’s hand and where each grandchild specifically stood, I took my first breath since the metro card purchase. And we waited for the train. When did they make the platforms so damn narrow? I think maybe, possibly someone said something to me, but I was vigilant at my post to protect my grandkids from becoming a horrible news headline….CHILD PULLED FROM TRACKS BY VIGILANT GRANDMA….. 91 degrees

It dawned on me that there was a possibility that the subway car would not be air conditioned but since standing on that platform any longer than necessary was not an option, no A/C and we were still getting on. Lucky us, air and seats. Not together, but do-able. My grandsons were further away from me than I would have liked when the entertainment entered the car. A homeless, drug addict magician who had metal rings that he attached himself to the poles with. Yay! Give the guy a buck and let him move on. My husband, who to this point was trying to look nonchalant with the whole experience (other than the metro card fiasco back in Brooklyn) was mesmerized by the digital map that counted off the stops we would be making. He stared up at it for most of the ride, announcing the stops much to the enjoyment of the other riders although it is doubtful that any of them spoke English. We were the only ’Americans’ and yet the only people who looked like tourists. Except maybe the birthday girl who remained just far enough away to feign anonymity. I blew her cover by taking her picture along with the grandkids, their parents and the magician. My husband announced our stop was next and I mentally prepared for the exodus and the hands that needed holding. Birthday girl was on her own. We made it up two flights of stairs, each one had exactly 13 steps. I counted. It kept me from screaming. The daylight and exhilaration of the 42nd street crowds made me smile. That and the fact that the museum was only a scant half block away.  93 degrees

For the price of the wax museum we could have gone to an all inclusive Punta Cana resort for the weekend, and that was with the coupons. The museum was packed with everyone from everywhere. Times Square is truly the crossroads of the world. Not a road I am too comfortable on, but I have bigger things to worry about…..like the trip home. Floor after floor we photographed the kids and ourselves hugging and yes at times grabbing our favorites. Birthday girl was disappointed that Rod Stewart had not made the waxing process yet and my husband admired Lady Di way too long. (if he told me once more about how he met her I was gonna shove him into her waxy figure)  The 4D OZ experience was wonderful perhaps because I am a huge OZ fan or perhaps because we were sitting in air conditioning and for the first time in hours I wasn't dripping from any body parts.

All geared up for the gift shop and the kids didn’t want anything. I wondered why. I found out moments later. We were going to the Toys R Us in Times Square where there are floors of toys to chose from. I made a feeble attempt to buy a $10 bag from a vendor en route but the sweat dripping off my nose stopped me from even considering a transaction out here in the heat. We made it to the world’s biggest toy store, with the world’s biggest indoor ferris wheel and the world’s biggest crowds. As the kids picked their souveniers I once again strategized our trip back to the subway station. Armed with the metro card that didn’t previously work, I swiped, we entered. No one but me was impressed. Following the signs to our train, I held on perhaps a little too tight to my grandson’s hand (I hope he wasn’t planning on playing the piano any time soon) when we realized that my daughter had stopped to use the rest room. THE REST ROOM IN TIMES SQUARE! Had I taught her nothing?! Note to self: administer penicillin    94 degrees

The platform was so packed that people were actually standing within the yellow line. The one they painted so that people would know that they were inches away from being dismembered by a 200 ton speeding piece of metal. The one that my son in law thought would be a good place to walk with the carriage to circumvent the wall to wall people all set to get on the same train as me and my ten pack. The train ride home was as eventful or uneventful as the ride in. My husband playing conductor calling out stops, the birthday girl sitting as far away as possible, and the kids watching the entertainment which this time was a sad rendition of La Bamba. A woman started eating rice and bean out of a Styrofoam container completely oblivious to the reeking subway stench. I silently mocked her only to find my daughter, the one that would be getting the pencillin shot, eating out of a zip lock bag. A snack she had brought presumably for her daughter.  95 degrees

We arrived back at the Brooklyn train station, set off the same alarm, said goodbye to those who found a decent parking spot and made our way to the car with me sweating and swearing and planning our next outing.

sorry fellas.........

On Wednesday evenings we put out the recycling in our neighborhood and other than having my green recycling bin stolen twice, I think it is very theraputic to clean out the old crappy magazines that are clogging up the magazine rack in the bathrooms.

For some reason I get like ten magazines a week. Some I ordered as part of a school ‘make the grandparents feel guilty” fund raiser, others were promotional ‘get one year free if you order NOW’, and others I have no idea where they came from but I am guessing my husband filled out one of those annoying little cards that they embed in the magazines. Mostly they are family type magazines filled with recipes and tips like how to look thinner in photographs. (Gonna take a lot more than standing sideways and bending a knee. At least for me.) Some of the magazines are craft magazines, which of course I ordered with all good intentions of becoming the next bohemian artist to show at a SoHo storefront. So that ain’t happenin’ either. I could have learned how to make a footstool in 10 steps or less a project I will never undertake no matter how few steps it takes. The only person I know that uses a footstool is my 82 year old Aunt Joy Mae from Illinois? A few of the magazines are my husband’s, all filled with Vettes, Lamborghinis and Aston Martins….he drives a Chevy Pick up and I have a Dodge….’nuf said. But my favorite magazine of all is my People, a gift subscription from a friend that I recently renewed. I can catch up on all the people that are getting married, breaking up, going to rehab, losing weight, gaining weight, looking good in a swimsuit, need to invest in a beach cover-up, ranted, raved, used the “N” word and crashed their car….and then when the neighbors and I are finished gossiping about each other I like to find out what the celebrities are doing. Hey, look at that….they are getting married, breaking up, going into rehab, losing weight…….

I found a few missing items at the bottom of the magazine rack. An earring that I swore I lost in a pool, which tells me that I was walking around for a few days with only one earring and no one bothered to tell me. I found an old wheat penny, which my husband collects and insists are worth money….yeah 2 cents. Maybe. And the biggest find was the stylus for my Nintendo DS game (and they say I’m not technologically forward, ha). I use the DS to keep my brain from atrophying by playing Brain Age while my legs and feet go numb from sitting on the bowl too long. (too much info, sorry!) The stylus has been missing forever and I had to use my nail to point and click to find out my true Brain Age. The lower the score the younger the brain. When I scored 39 I was happy…now if I get my true age I am thrilled. The brain has gotten old and tired in the wake of the missing stylus. Oh and I found a french fry. Since as far as I know my husband doesn’t snack in the bathroom I assume it was one of my grandsons.

I bundle the magazines with bakery twine and put them in my newspaper recycling bin. I take pride in the fact that the bin is almost half full already and I have two more bathrooms to do. I anticipate the finds at the bottom of those as well.

The bathroom in the basement which used to be my son’s apartment (she wipes a tear from her eye) has mostly year old magazines with naked women sitting on cars, naked women smoking cigars, naked woman wearing sports equipment, naked women in…well you get the idea. I dust them off and leave them there in the hopes that when next my son visits he will stay a bit longer…hopefully not in the bathroom the whole time.  Note to self: Grandsons cannot use downstairs bathroom.

The bathroom upstairs, I suppose if it were more conveniently located within my bedroom, would be called the Master Bath. But since it is at the top of the stairs it is simply, the upstairs bathroom.  That bathroom had the following:  A Beavis and Butthead sticker book….his not mine, no comment. *SAVE* A book on coin collecting, which while I had it out checked out those wheat pennies he neurotically collects. Yup, 2 cents. One particular year, 3 cents. He lied. *SAVE*  Union Life magazine….. basically a list of  union workers who died that month and how much their widows collected.  Seems a little gruesome to print a list like that, but I guess he just keeps checking to see if his name is in there. (when it is,  he can stop collecting his god damn pennies.) *TRASH * A People magazine from August 2009 with Kate Gosselin, pre-Dancing With The Stars makeover bitching and moaning about Jon and the media. Hellooo…..the media is the reason you are in my bathroom magazine rack in the first place and without Jon there is no little tribe to exploit, *TRASH* A catalogue for sheds…oh no ain’t going there again.  *TRASH* Another catalogue for sheds with things circled. *RIP AND TRASH* Three hard cover books made their way into the rack designed for magazine grade paper….The Life Story of Abbott & Costello, ditto Soupy Sales and TheYankee Years…his, his, mine. *SAVE*, *SAVE* and *SAVE* Two old Law Digest magazines that somehow made their way from the basement to the upstairs bathroom in pristine condition. I am guessing no one is reading them. *TRASH*  Another earring appeared, a Spongebob toothbrush, 3 pennies (none wheat), something that resembled a huge dead bug or a petrified prune but turned out to be something made out of plastic that melted into a blob, sixteen rubber bands and my husband's comb which he has been looking for since April.

The bathroom purging complete I tied the remain bundles and deposit them in the green bucket. Sorry fellas, you’ve used up all your relevance and it’s off to the big salvage yard in the sky. But then I realized it was Thursday and missed my recycling day. Guess they will just have to wait in periodical limbo until next Wednesday.

...cramps and crackers

I have a stomach ache. Don’t leave.…I won’t be dazzling you with tales of trips to the bathroom, won’t be subjecting you to mental pictures of bowl hugging and nausea. (I want you to know I spelled nausea all by myself, no spell check.) I do however want to vent about being sick, but not THAT sick, sick enough, but not doctor sick…you get the picture. Frankly it stinks. No one feels sorry for you, no one babies you, no one offers to make you tea. And everyone expects life to go on as usual, and of course it should and of course it does….

I have been hurting since Monday when I swallowed resort pool water that quite frankly I don’t think should have been ingested considering the amount of diaperless babies I saw swimming.  Some days it is really bad, sometimes not so much. On Thursday I watched my grandkids so that my daughter could go to work for a couple of hours even though it was a bad day.  (hope they remember these things when it comes to picking out my nursing home) I knew I wasn’t feeling well when I didn’t have the patience to put together the Dora puzzle for the eleventh time. I knew I wasn’t feeling well when I gave them animal crackers for breakfast and more telling, I watched Barney with them…twice! As soon as my daughter arrived to collect her kids I told her I needed to lay down and basically threw her out. I nestled myself on the floor amidst the toys and puzzles, grabbed a pillow from the couch, (yes the decorative ones I won’t let my husband use) and blissfully fell asleep. For 8 minutes….til the phone rang. The phone that of course was not nestled with me on the floor. I ignored the ringing figuring that by the time I got my sick bloated stomach off the floor and found the phone it would be too late. Back to sleep. Two minutes. Cell phone ringing from inside my pocketbook which was again somewhere other than nestled with me on the floor. I got up as quickly as my twisting gut would allow and found my pocketbook and my cell phone and then it stopped ringing…of course. I checked to see who it was and it said RESTRICTED which could only mean two things. It was Verizon calling to upgrade my service for an additional $20 a month which ain’t happening ….or….it was my brother-in-law who for some reason has it set up that his cell comes up restricted. (Like someone wants to get hold of his number and breathe heavy..?!) I checked the house phone and it was a RESTRICTED number as well so I guessed it was my brother in law and called his cell. His phone played a minute version of Louis Armstrong’s What a Wonderful World before he answered. My mother in law had to go to the hospital, that he was taking her now, and could I meet him there so that he can leave. ( he isn’t too well himself)  I agreed, grimaced and beeped my husband. Yes beeped. He has a beeper…welcome to 1985. I cursed the bowel gods as I waited for him to call back. Of course today, the day I need to be asleep on the floor amongst tea sets and fisher price, he is in a ‘dead’ zone. He doesn’t get the beep for over a half hour during which time I am slowly getting dressed against all better judgement, to go to the hospital. (I better be in that will!)

I picked up my daughter (not the one I previously threw out) to come with me in case I ended up on the floor myself enroute to the hospital and so that I didn’t have to look for a parking spot which is virtually impossible to find. We got to the hospital, I found a spot across the street…ACROSS THE STREET…you have no idea how huge that is. As I made my way through the ER with over 60 cubicles filled with the sick, sicker and sickest... I held my breath. I felt that in my stomach twisting condition I was way too susceptible to germs. We found my mother in law, stayed til they gave her pain medicine and admitted her. I was jealous. Just a little of that pain medicine would go a long way for my sorry little intestines.

On the way home my husband called to check in on how his mom fared in the ER, to say he was on his way home and should he go home or to the hospital. He also asked what we were having for dinner. I hung up.  We ate tuna that night. On crackers. Not the breakfast animal crackers, but on low sodium Ritz crackers which all things considered was worse than had we spread it on the camels and elephants.

I found my way to the floor once again. The toys were gone but my stinky dog decided I must want to play if I laid on the floor. He nudged and scratched and dropped balls on me. My husband, reminding me through it all, that he loves me. Not my husband, the dog. I gave up on the thought of sleeping. I turned on my computer and went on to Facebook to complain about the pain in my belly. My Facebook family all wished me well, and ya know I think it worked.

go ask Alice..........

On June 30, 2010 Mr. Wonderful and I were married 36 years. I think that bears repeating....36 YEARS! 432 MONTHS! 1728 WEEKS! 12,096 DAYS! 290,304 HOURS! 17,418,240 MINUTES! (feel bad for me yet?) In our usual celebratory fashion (ha..!) we planned a night out...for him, a free Morton’s Steakhouse dinner...for me, a free Broadway play. (I promise I will explain all this free stuff later) I changed my hours from afternoon to morning so that I would be home in time to get dressed to leave for dinner. He had to take the day off....to rest up for the big night out. Going anywhere with my husband is always an experience. We have to leave way too early, get there way too soon, take roads no one else would and not a traffic jam in the world annoys him. My kids go every year to the Thanksgiving Day parade with him, where they are made to leave at the crack of dawn, drive down Flatbush Avenue with the kamikaze dollar vans and then park almost in another borough and always facing south. (don’t ask) But leaving him there to save a choice spot, sitting like the egg hatching Horton while they get their kids breakfast somehow evens the score. So on this night  we will leave for dinner and an 8 o'clock show at........4:00pm.

The nightmare that is Flatbush Avenue doesn't disappoint. Dollar vans, crack heads, traffic. Ah, the start of a wonderful evening. We drive past Morton’s looking for a spot. Nothing. (I mention there is a parking lot next door in the hotel...no response) We circle the block. Still nothing. Twice. Nada (I mention there is a parking lot next door in the hotel....no response) A quarter of a tank of gas later as I circle and he navigates a look of amazement comes over him as he proclaims, "Look, there's a parking lot in the hotel next door." I applaud his discovery, park and say nothing. That, in a nutshell, is how we are still married after 36 years, 432 months.... (feelin' for me yet?)

We 'self park' I presume because the cheap bastard doesn't want to spring for the $1 valet tip. He will say it is because they will scratch the car. He has to choose the spot, not too near a turn or a wall or a crappy car. I drive a god damn Dodge! By the time we park and locate the elevator we are hardly speaking. Well I am hardly speaking, I don’t think he even knows I am pissed off. The elevator opens and we are on the convention floors of the hotel where there is a ballroom dancing competition. There are tables selling everything from jewelry to ball gowns, tiaras to tights. Every guy looked like a young Liberace dressed in oh-so-tight pants that left nothing to the imagination and showed their bulging...biceps? And the women had on more makeup than the gown mannequins. We headed for the nearest EXIT sign we could find. Through each EXIT door came another hallway, with another set of sale items, more Liberaces and several prancing high-heeled women. They sailed passed us practicing their passé dobles and Pechangas. I felt like Alice in Wonderland after falling in the rabbit hole with Twiddle Dee pulling up the rear. We finally reached a door that let us out into the 2nd floor lobby of the hotel. We headed for the escalator which of course was not working so we walked down the steepest and longest flight of stairs I have been on since I packed on these last 20 pounds. Who over tells you that going down isn't as hard as going up has never been on this gravity defying escalator from hell.

We walked into the restaurant and was instantly greeted by a hostess, a host, a waiter, three bus boys and a man in a suit, presumably the maitre d. We were shown our table, handed a menu and asked if we had ever been there before. They lit our little pig lantern and adjusted it to a romantic hue. (Of course I couldn’t see a damn thing since my gradient eyeglass lenses take forever to lighten in the darkness.) I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why the little lamp on the table was a pig, when there wasn’t a damn pork product on the menu. A cow I would understand, the pig...not so much. I found out later it has graced their tables since the first restaurant opened in 1978 and for $80 I could have my own pig light. Gonna pass, maybe next time. Every one of the wait staff that walked by said hello and asked us how we were doing? Every one. Every friggin' one.

A waiter that we hadn't seen yet or been greeted by came to our table pushing a cart full of steaks. Each was a different size and cut and I dare say, price. As the waiter held up each wrapped steak and described its cut and aging temperature, all I could think of was that I had a McDonalds Snack Wrap for lunch. We ordered drinks. We ordered salads. We ordered steak, a potatoe and creamed spinach for two. (insert any joke you‘d like here) The house Merlot was wonderful and served in an oversized wine glass which made me feel like Alice again. (one glass makes you larger…. one glass makes you small) The waitress anxiously, although not patiently, waited for me to open my present which my husband had put on the table next to the flaming pig lamp. He ordered the Porterhouse which looked like something Fred and Wilma would be grillin’ up, hanging off the plate on two sides. Mine was the ‘smaller’ Ribeye cut which was still about six servings on the Weight Watcher menu that I have long discarded. Deliciously cooked to perfection. The potatoes were steak fries and any sort of healthy preference in spinach was thwarted by the creamed part of that recipe. Full, and in pain, we ordered coffee and dessert. Upside-down apple pie Haagen Daz a-la-mode. Tell me you could have resisted that???

I opened my gift. A beautiful necklace that has the infinity symbol on it which leads me to believe he is either telling me we will be together forever or there is an Infiniti QX45 parked outside for me. SURPRISE!…nope, we’ll be together forever.

The coffee came. The irresistible and yet unfinished desert came. The bill came. A friend gave us a $100 gift card to Morton’s some time ago and we just got the opportunity to use it. And we only had to add $145. Two people, two drinks, two steaks, two hundred forty five dollars…tip included. The good news is they validated the parking ticket and therefore it only cost $12 to park in the hotel lot.

The Broadway show we went to was courtesy of one of my daughter’s friends who bought them years ago for someone who couldn’t go. With a few phone calls the tickets got traded in for anniversary seats. Thank you Lisa…both of you! Jersey Boys was so terrific and the seats were so good that I didn’t even mind the chatty little oriental girl next to me or the fact that she sang along way off tune…Shelli, Shelli baby…..!

Happy 36 years to us, and to another 36! (did I really just say that?)